Paint the Town Dead (2 page)

I followed, and took the handle of one rolling bin while Jasmine took the second one. Zach carried the large box of gourds. The box was awkward, but not heavy, Doralee said.

“Even a box of large gourds is fairly lightweight.”

Sherry had told me Doralee Gordon was fifty-five, but her chin-length golden brown hair and her cheerful smile made her look younger. Zach was probably in his early to mid-fifties, too. Trim and handsome, he dressed as country-casual as Doralee, and had kind hazel eyes almost the same color as hers. As he helped us arrange class materials on the tables, he worked quietly, but was quick to smile. He exuded a Zen-like calm that balanced Doralee's high-energy chatter.

When all the bottles of paint, the brushes, and handouts were set on the tables, Doralee greeted not only Sherry and the gang, but also the students as they came in. We'd made stick-on name tags printed in large block letters so the students wouldn't be anonymous faces. Doralee took advantage of our efforts and began to call people by name.

The class filed into the workroom, friends chatting with
each other. I'd been a bit surprised when Maise, Sherry, and Fred had opted to take the class. I hadn't wanted them to pay at all, but when they protested the freebie, I insisted on giving them a discount rate. I was curious and a bit concerned about Sherry wanting to learn gourd art. She'd always crafted baskets. Perhaps she wanted to branch out or away from her basket weaving due to the macular degeneration, but I hadn't asked for her reasons. I did notice she'd let her hair fall over her left eye, and with her bangs blocking that eye, she could focus better using her right one.

Sherry, Maise, and Jasmine shared the table closest to the refreshments so they could hostess at the break. Ida Bollings also shared their table, taking a seat at the far end where she could park her new walker out of the way. Fred's walker was next to Ida's, and he sat beside her on the tractor-seat stool he'd brought from his old workshop at the farmhouse.

At Sherry's request, I introduced Doralee, and then stood in the back ready to assist if needed. Zach took an empty spot at the far table, but we still had room for four walk-ins. Not that I figured anyone else would come this late, but I shrugged that aside and snapped a few pictures to post on our in-the-works website pages.

“Welcome, everyone,” Doralee began. “First, my thanks to Sherry and Aster for inviting me to teach you about gourd art, and to Nixy for her lovely introduction. Second, thank you for being here this evening. I hope you'll enjoy the class. Now, if you have questions as I go along, just holler. Let's begin with a quick history about the use of hard shell gourds.”

And off she went, telling the class about the different kinds of gourds, how she came to work with them, and the ways to craft with gourds. She then passed around samples of her various gourd art, from simple birdhouses, to gourds with designs etched using a woodburning tool, to beautifully painted gourds. She said gourds had been called nature's pottery, and I could see why.

“Why is a thick gourd better?” Sherry asked.

“They're more durable, and easier to work with, too. The longer the growing season, and the drier the gourds are before they're cut from the vine, the better.”

“Where do you get your gourds?” a lady in front asked.

“There are farms around the country you can order from, Ann. I get mine from an organic farm in California.”

“Is it hard to grow your own gourds?”

Doralee tilted her head. “I can't really speak to that, Deena, because I've never tried growing my own. I'm sure the local nurseries, agricultural extension, or the technical college could help you find that information. Be aware that cleaning gourds is a messy process. Whether you're cleaning gourds or cutting, chiseling, or wood-burning them, rubber gloves are recommended, and wearing a dust mask or respirator is an absolute must. I also work in a smock. Generally, I'm not a sloppy painter, but I have my moments.”

When the audience members muttered and glanced at their own clothing, Doralee held up a hand.

“Not to worry about getting spills or splats on yourselves tonight. I brought oversized T-shirts to wear if you want to protect your clothes. Any more questions?”

“Do gourds rot?”

“Not if they're properly dried, Jasmine. Gourd farms use all the correct drying procedures, so unless you plan to grow your own or you soak the ones you buy for any reason, rot won't be an issue.”

“What do you use your decorated gourds for?” Ida asked. “What I mean is, are these used for flower vases, or anything practical?”

“Painted and carved gourds can be sculptures in and of themselves, purely ornamental. However, they can also be used as vases, pencil holders, card holders. Again, depending on the shape and size—and your vision—they can have a variety of uses. One artist I know turned a huge gourd into
a cat bed. Birdhouses, as I mentioned earlier, can be made from a plain, unadorned gourd, or be painted or otherwise decorated.”

“How many kinds of gourds did you say there are?”

“If I name them all, Ginger, I'll sound like Forrest Gump.” The students chuckled and Doralee grinned. “Seriously, there are at least eight to ten kinds of shapes, and some lend themselves to a project better than others. I like to examine each gourd and let it spark my imagination as to what it will be.”

Doralee glanced at her watch. “We're due to have refreshments, and I know you probably want to get to the fun part—painting your gourds. Does anyone have another question before we break? No? Let's go nosh, and then paint.”

I snagged a piece of Ida's pear bread, but left the three kinds of cookies Maise, Aster, Eleanor, and Sherry had baked to the students. We'd opted to serve only bottled water to reduce spills, but no one seemed to mind.

When class resumed, Doralee asked me to pass out gourds. I grabbed stacks of tees, too, and placed them at the ends of the tables. Class members could snag one if they chose.

“Now these bottle gourds are all about the same shape,” she said as she donned her smock. A white one with liberal drops and drips of paint colors from butter yellow to blue-black. “I brought a small size so you could finish tonight, and I removed the neck so they'd be easier to handle. You'll find a variety of acrylic paint colors on the table, and some summery and patriotic stencils and sponges if you want a design on your gourd but don't want to freehand. I'll circulate to give you help if you need it.”

I stood at the back, ready to assist again, which I figured would be about the time students needed to rinse their paintbrushes. Doralee had brought clear plastic tubs that I'd put by the utility sink, and I started that way to fill them, when the emporium door banged open.

A scowling, burly man stomped into the workroom, and pointed at Doralee.

“Doralee Boudreaux, where do you get off teaching classes?” the man loudly demanded. “You learned everything you know from me. I should be the one up there.”

I moved without thinking, blocking the angry man's path even as Dab charged behind the intruder, clearly outraged. Before either of us could so much as speak a stern word to the man, Doralee cleared her throat with an attention-grabbing “Ahem.”

“My name is no longer Boudreaux, Ernie. It's Gordon again, as you well know,” she said firmly. “Had you been here at the start of the class, you'd know I did mention you and your birdhouses. Class, this is Ernie Boudreaux, my ex-husband. Who didn't teach me quite everything I know.”

She said the last bit with a twinkle in her eyes, but no one made a peep for a long moment. Then Jasmine piped up.

“I don't care who the flip he is. He made me mess up my gourd.”

A few students snickered. Ernie flushed but didn't retreat.

“Not to worry, Jasmine, I'll help you fix it. Zach, would you be a dear and fill a few of those little tubs with water?”

I'd been so focused on Doralee, I'd forgotten her gentleman friend had been sitting at the far table. He'd obviously
risen when Ernie burst in because he was already on his feet. With a nod to Doralee, he went to the utility sink.

“Thank you. A wonderful reason to use acrylics, class, is that it's a forgiving medium on a hard surface like a gourd,” Doralee continued, going right on with class, and, bless her, heading directly to Jasmine as she spoke.

She didn't spare Ernie another glance. I still stood directly in front of him, and took a step closer to really shift his attention away from Doralee. Dab flanked me.

“Time to leave, Mr. Boudreaux,” I said quietly so as not to disturb the class further.

He straightened to his full height, which made him shorter than Dab but towering over my five-three.

“I understand this class is open to anyone.”

“To anyone who pays the twenty dollars, although I should charge you double for causing a scene.”

“Done,” he said, a sly smile inching onto his lips.

I hadn't expected that response, but nodded. “Fine. Dab, will you please escort Mr. Boudreaux to the cash register?”

“What about his companions?” Dab asked. I raised a brow. “Two ladies came in with him. Aster's got them corralled in the store.”

“They pay the fee, they can take what's left of the class.” I gave Ernie the stink eye. “But you do anything to annoy me or interrupt the class, and you're out of here. I keep the class fee. Got it?”

He arched a bushy brow. “Ferocious little thing, aren't you?”

“Darn right.” I didn't let being called “little thing” bother me. I
am
short, and I look younger than my almost thirty years. Especially since my hair is nearly always in a ponytail.

Staying focused on the matter at hand, I watched as the rude man turned smartly and headed for the door. This time he opened it quietly. Dab gave me an I-hope-you-know-what-you're-doing look and trailed after Ernie.

Me? I let out a long breath, willing my surge of
adrenaline to subside. I gave a brief thought to snagging some calming lavender from Aster to sprinkle or spray around the room, but there wasn't time. I needed to join Zach at the utility sink to help dole out the water buckets. We'd completed the task when the door quietly opened again to admit Ernie and two women.

I did a double take at the woman clinging to Ernie's arm like a Texas sticker burr. The auburn-haired beauty had to be twenty years his junior. It also struck me that, except for having a more pampered, polished look, she resembled Doralee enough to be a sister. She even wore the same general outfit of jeans and a collared blouse. But while Doralee sported a simple, unadorned style, the younger woman was decked out in what looked like real silk and jewelry in silver settings. Dangly earrings, a pendant, three silver bracelets, and a diamond boulder on her left ring finger. Wowza! Sure seemed that Ernie had replaced Doralee with a younger, poutier, more expensive version.

The older woman who trailed behind Ernie and the redhead wore jeans with a simple flowered tunic blouse. I deduced she was his sister because she resembled Ernie in her facial features—same patrician nose and sharp chin. She was thinner, no bull neck like Ernie's. That was a blessing because her short salt-and-pepper hair didn't complement her face as it was, and neither did her sour expression. She didn't wear jewelry except for a rope chain necklace that looked like real gold.

The trio took their seats quietly. I noticed Zach back at the utility sink. His face expressed distaste, but he filled three more tubs for the newcomers. I reined in my ire and picked three gourds from the bin where Doralee had stashed the extras. As I set them before Ernie and his companions, I noticed their hastily handwritten name tags.
KIM
, the younger woman's read, and
GEORGINE
was printed on the elder woman's.

Doralee would've had every right to ignore the newcomers, in my opinion, but she didn't, and I admired her poise.
While most students carried on low conversations with one another, Doralee made the rounds, complimenting each student, including Ernie's and Georgine's gourds. Kim didn't participate. She didn't look like a woman who painted her own perfectly oval fingernails, never mind a gourd.

Ego-Ernie's response to Doralee's praise of his freehand design was an arrogant, “Of course. I'm a gourd master.”

I rolled my eyes at that, and kept a wary watch on the three latecomers. Kim sat thigh to thigh with Ernie, speaking in a low, wheedling voice. The sole smile she spared for Doralee struck me as superior rather than friendly. Georgine completely ignored Kim's mumbling and shifting on the stool, but shot the occasional scowl at Ernie.

To my surprise, the older woman gave Doralee a cordial nod and murmured, “It's good to see you again.”

Doralee smiled back. “You, too, Georgine. I hope you're well.”

She aimed a look of loathing at Kim. “Things are tolerable.”

Wow. I could hardly wait to buttonhole Sherry and Aster, the two who seemed to know Doralee the best, and get the scoop on these people.

A long forty minutes later, the class wrapped.

“Thank you again for coming tonight. If you've caught the gourd art bug, I encourage you to continue experimenting. Remember, your handout has information on where to buy cleaned and craft-ready gourds. My website URL and e-mail are there, too, if you want to contact me.”

“We appreciate you making the trip to teach us about gorgeous gourds, Doralee,” I said as I went to her table. “Ladies and gentlemen, you have a few minutes to finish up, but remember Doralee and The Handcraft Emporium's own Sherry Mae Cutler will demonstrate more gourd-decorating techniques tomorrow afternoon. If you can't be here, I hope you'll join us for our other grand opening events listed on the flyers out in the store.”

Seven ladies from the class crowded around Doralee to ask more questions. Ernie hung back, too, as if he wanted a word with Doralee. This time she did ignore him. She chatted with the students as she packed her supplies in their case, including the extra painting tees. Sherry and Aster also stood nearby. I hadn't seen Aster come in from the store, but I was glad they kept Doralee busy.

Kim pulled at his arm. “Let's go, Ernie. You can ask her tomorrow.”

His expression torn, Ernie finally ushered Kim and Georgine through to the store and, I hoped, straight out the front door.

None of them had taken their gourds with them, although I noticed Georgine's featured fireworks in red, white, and blue paint. Not as elaborate as Ernie's design, but it was surprisingly well done.

Zach had started gathering the paints, paintbrushes, and water tubs, so I joined in, working from the other side of the room. I made sure each paint bottle was capped tightly, and I then met Zach at the utility sink to empty and rinse water tubs. He spoke over the sound of the running tap.

“Thanks for the way you handled Ernie.”

I flashed a smile. “You're welcome, but Doralee put him in his place just fine. I hope she doesn't have to deal with him often.”

Zach shrugged. “A few times a year, especially from about May to October when they both travel to arts and craft festivals.”

“No wonder she knows how to take him down a peg.” I tilted my head. “He bothers you, doesn't he?”

“Yes, but so does that new fiancée of his. She's a piece of work.”

“What about the other woman? Is she his sister?”

“Yes, she is. I haven't been around her enough to have an opinion. Hey, looks like the stragglers are leaving. I'll start packing the bins if you'll finish rinsing the tubs.”

“Deal,” I said. “Jasmine will be over to help me wash and dry in a minute.” And she was.

I spotted Fred escorting Ida out the back door to her car. Jasmine saw where I was looking and nudged me. “That's so sweet.”

“It is, isn't it?”

She and I made short work of cleanup duty, and I sent her into the store with her still-drying gourd. I carried the dried water tubs and a few more paintbrushes to Doralee.

“Here you go. I think that's the last of your supplies.”

“Thanks, Nixy. I'm sorry about Ernie's appearance. I was just telling Sherry and Aster that I don't know what gets into him sometimes. Well, I never did.”

“He wants you back,” Zach said quietly.

Doralee reached for his hand. “Not going to happen. He has Kim, or he will. I think the wedding is a month or two away, but she was after him before our divorce was final.” She paused for a second and laughed. “That sounded bitter, didn't it?”

“It can't be easy for you seeing that rock on her hand,” Sherry said.

“It is ostentatious, isn't it? I can say that because I wore it. The Boudreaux family ring was so elegant. A large square-cut diamond in a gold art deco–style band. But Ernie insisted it was too old-fashioned, so he had the stone taken out and reset with slightly smaller diamonds flanking it. I never did care for the ring, so I was glad to give it back.” Doralee shook her head. “Kim is spoiled and single-minded and self-absorbed, but she's not an evil person. In fact, I should probably warn her about Georgine's peccadillos, but Kim's former in-laws make Georgine look like a saint. Besides, I have the sense not to get in the middle of that dynamic.”

I wanted to ask, “The middle of what,” but bit my tongue so Sherry and the ladies wouldn't accuse me of being a nosy parker.

Instead, I steered the conversation more or less back on track. “Ernie aside, the class was amazing, Doralee. You have a gift for teaching as well as art.”

“Nixy's right,” Sherry said, beaming. “You made a wonderful impression on everyone.”

Aster nodded. “We heard nothing but compliments as the students came out front. Oh, and Dab prepared your check. Here you go.”

“Thank you. All of you. It was fun, and I look forward to doing the etching demonstration tomorrow afternoon while Sherry demonstrates vine weaving.”

“Then you'll be showing how to attach the vines, right?” I asked. The demonstration programs all week were free, partly to get people in the door, but I wanted them to be every bit as professionally presented as they'd be for a paid class.

“Sherry and I will talk about that together, but yes. And here's to Ernie not showing up again.”

I'm sure we all seconded that, but Fred clanked-clomped his way inside about then. Time to get the bins to Doralee's SUV. She and her gentleman had a long, romantic weekend to start, and I wanted to put my feet up.

*   *   *

The feet-up thing didn't happen because there were still students and customers in the emporium. The wind chime Aster had insisted we use in lieu of a shopkeeper's bell tinkled merrily as people came and went. The chime hung from the ceiling on a long S hook. The plan was to remove it when we expected heavy traffic, or during the demonstrations that would be held in the store, but we'd forgotten to take it down this evening. It was fine, though. The cheerful sound spelled shoppers spending money. No complaints about that.

At nine fifteen, I showed the last person out. At nine thirty, I sent Jasmine home and locked the door behind her.
At nine thirty-five, Detective Eric Shoar of the Lilyvale Police Department knocked on the door. Eric Shoar. The man who had semi-strong-armed me into coming to Lilyvale just weeks ago in April, insisting that I ensure that Aunt Sherry and her gang weren't in danger of blowing up or burning down their farmhouse. They were not, of course, but Detective Shoar and I subsequently forged a budding relationship while solving a murder. Would the bud blossom? Too early to tell, because the man alternately miffed me and made me melt.

Which was saying a heck of a mouthful since I'd had dated a lot of men. Okay, a lot of first and second dates followed by a parting of ways entirely or becoming just friends. Still, Eric tripped my trigger in a way no guy had in a long time. We had a dance of attraction going, but I didn't seem to know the steps. I swung from feeling comfortable with him to a state of awkward hyperawareness. Of course, it didn't help that he made his usual “uniform” of jeans, collared shirts, and boots sexier than all get-out.